An odd sort of blog, this writ and testament is for my family. But you may read it if you don’t mind involvement in, what some might label, a rather dark discussion. And if you do make that choice, please feel free to comment.
To my three daughters, there is so much to and fro about last writs and testaments being legally verified, probated, and authenticated. There is much to-do about them being blessed, signed, sealed, and witnessed by lawyers who rack up phenomenal fees for separation and execution of each one of these abstractions. The profusion and confusion leads me to believe that I can no longer expect expressions in a simple letter stashed in my safety deposit box to be upheld. But hey, if my writ is buried in my blog, who can defy its authenticity?
And so, firstly, I want medical intervention, but not extreme intervention, if I become critically ill. You know that for me quality of life has to do with simple basic considerations. My needs are like those of a child. So although I may some day be too sick to express my needs, I want little more than basic comforts. I want to be dry, clean, and warm. I want cotton bedding and comforting arms if I am sad. I want food and drink. And I don’t want any excuses that I might choke to death or linger if given either. If I choke to death, so be it. If I linger, Health Care may just have to redo their budget or cut-back expenses in some other budget designation. And girls, please forgive me, if these considerations force you to attend my bedside for three months rather than three days.
I know much of this goes without saying, knowing that each of you are of a mind that so closely parallels my own except perhaps, for a couple of other considerations.
I want fresh air, an open window, and a beam of sunlight. I want morphine for pain but girls, track those dosages, I don’t want extra to hurry me on my way. When bedridden, I want to be turned on my side – with a small quilt folded between my knees – cause you know my back kills me when I lie on my back for more than a few moments. And I would consider as a nice gratuity, soft Hymns of transport.
What I don’t want is to go into palliative care until I am drawing my last breath. Already I can’t sleep in a bed that has a grand oak headboard. When I am half-asleep and I awake looking up at a towering grand oak headboard, my mind starts playing nasty tricks on me.
And for those possessions I own, I want you to divide them equally except the stuff in my craft room. For that stuff, whoever is brave enough and willing enough to clean it out, that courageous person is entitled to additional compensation. Compensation, that I am sorry to say, cannot be provisionally provided through ownership of the goodies stored there.
Now I may be naïve but I hoping that with this blog I can supersede the many aspects of the legal system. And in that confidence, it seems I have no need to make all those extraneous determinations that society insists are pertinent.
Truth is, I am pretty chaffed by the modern philosophy about death that has trimmed medical intervention in an acute way (to reduce costs), while expanding legal costs to the departee that are as big as the sea and the sky. Seems like, if I follow all the terms of current protocol, there ends up being such a bombardment of concerns it could drive me to take desperate measures. Maybe even Euthanasia? The risk is real but as long as I have my wits about me, I will not allow that to happen.
And so, yes, I realize that if I am wrong, if a blog-writ is unacceptable and if I have no ‘legal’ writ, the Public Trustee will tie up everything. But, so what, if this writ is unsatisfactory, let him do that. I laugh to think what he will do with all those scraps of lace, dress patterns, quilt blocks, and scraps of fabric even if he does take my sewing machine. But by God, girls, if this blog post isn’t good enough, and he wants my stuff, let him be the one to clean out the craft room in the basement.
And in conclusion, when I have transferred, do what you like. I will be in God’s hands and it matters not to me at that point what happens to the ‘vessel’ I have vacated.
It goes without saying, but to any skeptical attorneys, barristers, or solicitors, this post contains the express wishes of Roberta Smith of Elusive Abstractions.